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RHYMES  OF  THE  ROCKIES; 


OR, 


WHAT  THE  POETS  HAVE  FOUND  TO  SAY 


BEAUTIFUL  SCENERY 


DENVER  &  RIO  GRANDE  RAILROAD, 


THE    SCENIC    LINE    OF  THE    WORLD. 


THIRD  EDITION,  100.000 


COPYRIGHT,  1887,  BY  S.  K.  HOOPER. 


CHICAGO: 
POOLE  BROS.,  PRINTERS  AND  ENGRAVERS. 


PRESENTATION. 

Qitys  little  Book  of  poems, 
Descriptipe  of  Scenes  among  tfye  Kocky  mountains 

as  meroeb  from  trains 

of 
Cfye  Denser  &  Hio  <£>ranbe  Kailroab, 

is  presenteb  tr>itfy  tfye 

compliments 

of 


General  Passenger  Agent, 


COPIES  OF  "RHYMES  OF  THE  ROCKIES"   WILL  BE  SENT  TO  ANY  ADDRESS  ON   APPLICATION  TO 

S.  K.  HOOPER,  General  Passenger  Agent,  -  -  -  DENVER. 
W.  B.  COBB,  General  Eastern  Agent,  31V  Broadway,  NEW  YORK. 
MATT  JOHNSON,  General  Agent,  •  236  Clark  Street,  CHICAGO. 
L.  B.  EVELAND,  Traveling  Agent,  100  AV.  9th  St.,  KANSAS  C'rry. 

W.  F.  TIDBITS,  Traveling  Agent, DENVER. 

C.  L.  PARIS,  Traveling  Agent,  126^  Walnut  Street,  CINCINNATI. 
CHA.S  A  GII.LIO,  Generil  European  Agent, 

s)  Strand.  Charing  Cross.  I»NDON.  EKOLAVD 


PREFACE. 

VHEREVER  Nature  appears  in  her  grander  moods, 
her  inspiration  stirs  the  heart  and  the  imagination, 
and  whether  it  be  the  "  Banks  and  Braes  o'  Bonnie 
Doon,"  the  Crags  of  the  "Rio  de  Las  Animas,"  "The 
Royal  Gorge,"  the  rocky  declivities  of  "  Ben  Venue"  or  the 
cleft  summit  of  "  The  Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross,"  the  poetic 
spirit  is  invoked  and  a  rhythmic  offering  laid  upon  the 
altar  of  the  muses.  The  picturesque  countries  of  the  old 
world  have  been  immortalized  in  song,  and  to  show  that 
Colorado,  one  of  the  newest  portions  of  the  new  world, 
has  not  failed  to  inspire  the  same  sentiments  in  the  hearts 
of  none  the  less  sincere  poets,  this  book  has  been  pre- 
pared. Upon  these  pages  are  presented  a  few  of  the  con- 
tributions to  poetic  literature  incited  by  beholding  scenes 
grander  and  more  varied  than  those  of  Scotland,  Italy  or 
Switzerland,  all  the  more  valuable  because  spontaneous 
and  therefore  expressive  of  genuine  emotions.  In  order 
that  nothing  may  be  lacking  in  the  conveying  of  a  vivid 
impression,  pictures  which  are  works  of  art  supplement 
the  poems,  and  to  further  assist  the  imagination  of  those 
who  have  not  beheld  these  scenes  and  to  refresh  the  mem- 
ory  of  those  who  have  beheld  them,  brief  but  accurate 
descriptions  have  been  added.  In  a  work  of  this  character, 
brevity  must  be  observed  and  only  typical  poems  and 
scenes  have  been  selected.  The  mid-continent  region 
traversed  by  the  Denver  &  Rio  Grande  Railroad  possesses 
without  doubt  the  most  magnificent  scenery  in  the  world 
and  the  difficulty  has  been,  not  what  to  select,  but  what 
to  omit.  As  it  is,  this  book  must  be  considered  as  only  a 
hint  as  to  what  exists  in  the  wonderland  of  the  Rocky 
mountains  and  its  object  will  be  attained  if  it  excite  an 
intelligent  interest  in  the  most  picturesque  portion  of  our 
country. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


PRELUDE. 

My  country  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing; 
Land  where  our  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrim's  pride, 
From  every  mountain  side 

Let  Freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free — 

Thy  name  I  love; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees, 

Sweet  freedonrs  song; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake, 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake, 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break, 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  father's  God  to  thee, 
Author  of  Liberty, 

To  thee  I  sing; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 


RHYMES    OF   THE    ROCKIES. 


PALMER    LAKE. 

PALMER  LAKE,  in  addition  to  being  a  place  of 
exceeding  beauty,  is  a  natural  curiosity,  poised,  as 
it  is,  exactly  on  the  summit  of  the  "Divide,"  a  spur 
of  the  outlying  range  of  the  Rockies,  extending  eastward 
into  the  great  plains,  and  from  this  summit  the  waters  of 
the  lake  flow  northward  to  the  Platte  and  southward  to 
the  Arkansas.  Approached  from  either  Denver  or  Pueblo, 
via  the  Denver  &  Rio  Grande  Railroad,  it  breaks  suddenly 
upon  the  sight,  a  vision  of  sylvan  beauty  and  delight. 
Red-roofed,  picturesque  cottages  nestle  here  and  there 
among  the  hills,  gaily-painted  boats  float  gracefully  upon 
the  bright  blue  waters,  a  fountain  in  the  center  flings  its 
spray  half  a  hundred  feet  into  the  air,  and  on  either  hand 
rugged  peaks,  pine-clad  and  broken  by  castellated  rocks, 
rise  into  a  sky  whose  cerulean  hue  is  reflected  by  the 
placid  waters  of  the  lake.  Excellent  hotels  and  livery 
establishments  furnish  good  accommodations  for  sojourn- 
ers.  Surely  here  can  be  found  the  realization  of  Petrarch's 

lines: 

"  The  ray 

Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday, 
Developing  the  mountains,  leaves  and  flowers, 
And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  whereby, 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 

With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality." 

Closely  contiguous  is  Glen  Park,  an  assembly  ground 
modeled  after  the  famous  Chautauqua  and  destined  to 
become  equally  as  popular  in  the  West  as  its  prototype  in 
the  East.  Objects  of  natural  interest  are  abundant  and 
the  walks  and  drives  to  Glen  D'Eau,  Bellview  Point,  Ben 
Lomond,  the  Arched  Rocks  and  the  canons  and  glens 
adjacent  afford  material  for  enjoyment  in  the  seeing  and 
for  many  pleasant  memories. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


PALMER    LAKE. 

W.   E.  PABOR. 

Serene  and  sweet  and  smiling  as  a  bride 
Nestles  Lake  Palmer  on  the  green  Divide; 
The  hills  around  it,  the  blue  sky  above, 
The  summer  sunshine  bathing  it  in  love; 
Fair  as  the  lochs  that  lie  in  Scotia's  glens, 
Worthy  the  praise  that  comes  from  poets'  pens. 
Its  sparkling  waters  in  the  sunshine  gleam 
Full  of  the  glamour  of  the  sweetest  dream. 


Toward  the  sunset,  in  the  green  defile, 

The  pine  trees  rustle  and  the  wild  flowers  smile; 

The  crystal  waters  of  the  creek  flow  by, 

White  as  the  snows  that  on  the  mountains  lie; 

Within  the  shadow  bits  of  sunshine  rest 

Like  diamonds  gleaming  from  an  umber  nest; 

Wild  roses  blush  at  kisses  given  by  bees 

And  black-birds  twitter  underneath  the  trees. 


The  waters  ripple  to  the  lake's  green  shore, 
Timing  the  dipping  of  the  boatman's  oar; 
The  fountain  glistens  in  the  sun's  warm  beams, 
The  white  spray  falling  down  in  rainbow  streams ; 
The  air  is  full  of  melody  and  sound, 
Voices  float  out  as  if  from  fairy  ground. 
And  all  our  thoughts  to  happy  fancies  run 
Under  the  languor  of  the  summer  sun. 

Oh!  lake  of  beauty,  glen  of  sweet  content! 

On  the  headwaters  of  the  Monument; 

The  hills  that  hide  thee,  and  each  bosky  dell 

That  nestles  near  thee,  but  one  story  tell ; 

To  those  who  love  fair  Nature  when  she  waits 

And  smiles  a  welcome  at  the  open  gates, 

Where  Pleasure  stands  to  lead  to  leaf-robed  nooks 

And  sweet  delights  we  cannot  find  in  books. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


THE  GARDEN   OF  THE  GODS. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  GODS  is  a  valley  of  won- 
ders easily  accessible  from  Manitou.  Approached 
from  the  west  the  entrance  is  through  what  may 
aptly  be  called  a  postern  gate  in  contrast  with  the  entrance 
from  the  east  through  the  grand  gateway.  In  this  solitude 
nature  has  perpetrated  many  strange  freaks  of  sculpture 
and  of  architecture,  as  if  she  were  diverting  herself  after 
the  strain  of  the  mighty  mood  in  which  the  mountains 
were  brought  forth.  Solitude  is  here  unbroken  by  the  resi- 
dence of  man,  but  inanimate  forms  of  stone  supply  quaint 
and  grotesque  suggestions  of  life.  Here  are  found  hints 
of  Athens  and  the  Parthenon,  Palmyra  and  the  Pyramids, 
Karnac  and  her  crumbling  columns.  Many  of  these  mono- 
liths are  nearly  tabular  and  reach  the  height  of  three  and 
four  hundred  feet.  Two  of  the  loftier  ones,  with  a  small 
space  between,  make  the  two  portals  of  the  famed  gate- 
way. After  their  form,  their  most  striking  feature  is  their 
color,  which  glows  with  an  intensity  of  red  unknown  in 
any  of  the  sandstones  of  the  east.  Standing  outlined 
against  a  spotless  sky  of  blue,  with  the  white  light  of  the 
sun  falling  upon  them,  these  portals  flash  with  the  bright 
splendor  of  carnelian.  The  inanimate  forms  have  received 
appropriate  designations.  There  is  a  "Statue  of  Liberty," 
a  "Cathedral  Spire,"  a  "Dolphin,"  a  "Bear  and  Seal,"  a 
"Lion,"  a  "Griffin,"  and  hundreds  of  other  quaint  and 
curious  figures,  making  a  list  far  too  extended  for  recapitu- 
lation here.  No  words  can  describe  the  weird  attractions 
of  this  wonderful  garden,  which,  once  beheld,  however,  can 
never  be  forgotten.  The  impression  is  of  something 
mighty,  unreal  and  supernatural.  Of  the  gods  surely — but 
of  the  gods  of  the  Norse  Walhalla  in  some  of  their  strange 
outbursts  of  wild  rage  or  uncouth  playfulness. 


IO  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 

THE  GARDEN   OF  THE  GODS 

WILLIAM    ALLEN    BUTLER. 

Beneath  the  rocky  peak  that  hides 

In  clouds  its  snow -flecked  crest, 
Within  these  crimson  crags  abides 

An  Orient  in  the  West. 
These  tints  of  flame,  these  myriad  dyes, 

This  Eastern  desert  calm, 
Should  catch  the  gleam  of  Syrian  skies, 

Or  shade  of  Egypt's  palm. 

As  if  to  bar  the  dawn's  first  light 

These  ruby  gates  are  hung; 
As  if  from  Sinai's  frowning  height 

These  riven  tablets  flung. 
But  not  the  Orient's  drowsy  gaze, 

Young  Empire's  opening  lids 
Greet  these  strange  shapes,  of  earlier  days 

Than  Sphinx  or  Pyramids. 

Here  the  New  West  its  wealth  unlocks, 

And  tears  the  veil  aside, 
Which  hides  the  mystic  glades  and  rocks 

The  Red  man  deified. 
This  greensward,  girt  with  tongues  of  flame, 

With  spectral  pillars  strewn, 
Not  strangely  did  the  savage  name 

A  haunt  of  gods  unknown. 

Hard  by  the  gentle  Manitou 
His  healing  fountains  poured; 

Blood -red,  against  the  cloudless  blue, 
These  storm-tossed  Titans  soared. 


With  torrents  wild  and  tempest  blast, 

And  fierce  volcanic  fires, 
In  secret  moulds,    has  Nature  cast 

Her  monoliths  and  spires. 

Their  shadows  linger  where  we  tread, 

Their  beauty  fills  the  place; 
A  broken  shrine — its  votaries  fled — 

A  spurned  and  vanished  race. 
Untouched  by  Time  the   garden  gleams, 

Unplucked  the  wild  flower  shines, 
And  the  scarred  summit's  rifted  seams 

Are  bright  with  glistening  pines. 

And  still  the  guileless  heart  that  waits 

At  Nature's  feet  may  find, 
Within  the  rosy,  sun -lit  gates, 

A  hidden  glory  shrined. 
His  presence  feel  to  whom,  in  fear, 

Untaught,  the  savage  prayed, 
And,  listening  in  the  garden,  hear 

His  voice,  nor  be  afraid. 


12  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 

MANITOU. 

1L  AANITOU  is  the  ideal  summer  resort,  having  been 
I V  \  favored  by  nature  with  healing  springs  equal,  if 
M  IL  not  superior,  in  efficacy  to  those  of  Ems  or  Spa 
or  Saratoga,  and  being  surrounded  by  scenery  more  beau- 
tiful, grand  and  varied  than  that  of  any  similar  resort  in 
the  world.  Here  is  an  Arcadian  valley,  lying  at  the  foot 
of  Pike's  Peak,  protected  by  encircling  mountains  and 
enlivened  by  the  foam-bedecked,  flashing  waters  of  the 
Fountain  que  Bouille,  which,  full  of  the  sprightliness  of 
its  youth  in  Ute  Pass  and  its  escapade  at  Rainbow  Falls, 
comes  dashing  and  splashing  and  singing  its  happy  song: 

"  I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles ; 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles.1' 

This  valley  is  made  the  site  of  a  village,  picturesque  in  its 
construction  and  abounding  in  hotels  which  rival  in  elegance 
and  luxury  those  of  the  famous  Eastern  watering-places. 
With  a  climate  renowned  for  its  salubrity,  with  medicinal 
springs  of  acknowledged  superiority,  with  pure  air,  bright 
sunshine  and  a  walk  or  drive  leading  to  some  new  object 
of  interest  for  each  day  in  the  week,  Manitou  has  justly 
received  the  palm  as  the  most  charming  of  summer 
resorts.  Easily  accessible,  being  a  station  on  the  Denver 
&  Rio  Grande  Railroad,  only  three  hours'  ride  from  Den- 
ver or  Pueblo,  it  is  thronged  each  season  by  the  wealth, 
cultivation  and  fashion,  not  only  of  Colorado,  but  also  of 
the  East,  from  all  parts  of  which  may  be  found  represent- 
atives whose  days  of  enjoyment  here  not  only  secure 
their  return,  but  also  the  presence  of  their  friends,  attracted 
by  the  glowing  reports  of  those  who  have  experienced  its 
manifold  attractions. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  13 


MANITOU. 


EDGAR    P.  VANGASSEN. 

Where  the  shadow  of  the  mountain 
Meets  the  sunshine  of  the  fountain, 
Listen  to  these  -voices  singing 
And  the  message  they  are  bringing  : 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  SPRINGS:  SPIRIT  OF  THE  SPRINGS: 

Sister  spirit  of  the  stream  Sister  spirit  of  the  stream 

Is  it  real  or  a  dream?  It  is  real,  not  a  dream! 

Face*  in  their  color  change,  Echoes  as  from  Eden  wake 

Voices  take  a  wider  range;  Music  such  as  seraphs  make 

Nature's  emerald  bosom  shows  In  each  glen  and  through  each  rift 

Charm  and  color  of  the  rose;  Where  your  shining  \vaters  drift; 

Tell  me,  spirit,  is  it  true,  While  the  song  of  youth  and  maid 

All  things  old  give  place  to  new  ?  Crown  each  cool  and  shadowed  glade. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  STREAM:  SPIRIT  OF  THE  STREAM: 

Sister  spirit  of  the  spring,  From  the  peak  down  which  I  flow 

Fresher,  clearer  voices  sing  With  my  water  born  of  snow, 

Of  a  whiter,  later  race  To  the  valley  lands  that  lie 

Taking  the  swart  Indian's  place.  'Neath  a  warm  and  sunny  sky, 

Art  to  Nature  gives  her  hand;  All  the  air  is  full  of  change, 

Fashion  waves  her  magic  wand,  Change  as  sweet  as  it  is  strange , 

And  the  languorous  glamour  cast  And  my  song  forever  chimes 

Veils  the  glory  of  the  past.  To  these  later,  happier  times. 

THE  SPIRITS  OF  THE  SPRINGS  AND  STREAM: 

Whiter  tepees  crown  our  hills, 
Sweeter  lips  now  touch  our  rills; 
Under  Manitou's  bright  skies 
Fairer  faces  meet  our  eyes; 
And  where  crystal  waters  glide 
Happy  lovers  blush  and  hide; 
Dusky  features  fade  away, 
Saxon  faces  crown  To- Day. 

Flash  on  fountain,  roll  on  river, 
Snow-croTvned  peak  and  sun- kissed  vale  / 

These  are  Nature's  gifts  forever, 
Until  Nature's  self  shall  fail. 


IN  CHEYENNE  CANON. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


CHEYENNE    CANON. 

GiEYENNE  CANON  is  full  of  surprises.  A  pleasant 
drive  of  four  miles  from  Colorado  Springs  brings 
one  to  the  place.  The  vulgar  linear  measure  of  its 
length  is  out  of  harmony  with  the  winding  path,  over 
rocks,  between  straight  pines  and  across  the  rushing  waters 
of  the  brook  that  boils  down  the  whole  rocky  cut.  The 
narrow  gorge  ends  in  a  round  well  of  granite,  down  one 
side  of  which  leaps,  slides,  foams  and  rushes  a  series  of 
cascades — seven  falls  in  line  pouring  the  water  from  the 
melted  snow  above  into  this  cup.  In  this  deep  hollow 
only  the  noonday  sun  ever  shines.  Going  up  the  cafion, 
with  the  roar  of  the  waters  ahead  and  the  winding  path 
before  one,  the  loftiness  and  savage  wildness  of  the  walls 
catch  only  a  dizzying  glance,  but  coming  out  their  sides 
seem  to  touch  the  heavens  and  to  be  measureless.  The 
eye  can  hardly  take  in  the  vast  height  and,  with  the  after- 
noon sun  touching  only  the  extreme  tops,  one  realizes  in 
.what  a  crevice  and  fissure  of  the  rocks  the  cafion  winds. 
A  comparison  between  this  and  the  Via  Mala  and  the 
other  wild  gorges  of  the  Alps  is  impossible,  but  had  legend 
and  history  and  poetry  followed  it  for  centuries  Cheyenne 
cafion  would  have  its  great  features  acknowledged.  Above 
the  waterfall,  on  the  eastward  slope  of  Cheyenne  mount- 
ain, is  the  grave  of  one  of  America's  truest  poets  and  most 
remarkable'Women,  "H.  H."  Here  the  late  Helen  Hunt 
Jackson  lies  asleep  among  the  scenes  she  loved. 

"  Such  graves  as  these  are  pilgrims'  shrines — 

Shrines  to  no  codes  or  creed  confined, 
The  Delphian  Vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind." 

Cheyenne  cafion  has  henceforth  and  forever  a  profounder 
meaning,  its  unexampled  beauty  being  supplemented  by 
a  sacred  and  tender  memory. 


16  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


CHEYENNE    CANON. 

STANLEY  WOOD. 

Oh,  Cheyenne  canon !  in  thy  dim  defiles, 

Where  glooms  the  light,  as  through  cathedral  aisles, 

Where  flash  and  fall  bright  waters,  pure  as  air, 

Where  wild  birds  brood,  wild  blossoms  bloom,  and  where 

The  wind  sings  anthems  through  the  darkling  trees, 

A  presence  breathes  the  tenderest  melodies, 

Songs  that  the  finer  ears  of  poets  feel 
But  do  not  hear,  ethereal  chords  that  steal 
Upon  the  soul,  as  fragrance  of  the  flowers, 
Unseen,  unknown,  from  undiscovered  bowers, 
Enwraps  the  senses  with  a  deep  delight, 
Pure  as  the  stars  and  tender  as  the  night. 

For  here  in  Nature's  arms  there  lies  asleep 
One  who  loved  Nature  with  a  passion  deep, 
Who  knew  her  language  and  who  read  her  book, 
Who  sang  her  music,  which  the  bird,  the  brook, 
The  winds,  the  woods,  the  mountains  and  the  seas 
Chant  ever,  in  commingling  harmonies. 

Oh,  Cheyenne  cafion !  through  thy  dim  defiles 

The  music  floats  as  through  cathedral  aisles; 

The  singer  silent,  but  the  song  is  heard 

In  sigh  of  wind  and  carolling  of  bird. 

All  these  the  poet's  melodies  prolong, 

For  Nature  now  sings  o'er  her  loved  one's  song. 


18  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


VETA  PASS, 

rROM  VETA  PASS  one  beholds  a  scene  of  great 
magnificence,  but  it  is  not  alone  the  view  that 
repays  the  tourist;  the  ascent  itself  is  fraught  with 
the  profoundest  interest.  The  Denver  &  Rio  Grande  Rail- 
road accomplishes  the  summit  by  a  series  of  stupendous 
grades  and  the  most  remarkable  curve  in  the  history  of 
railroad  engineering.  The  "  muleshoe  curve  "  is  a  scientific 
achievement  worth  a  trip  across  the  continent  to  see. 
The  road  is  a  mere  groove  cut  in  the  side  of  the  mountain, 
which  is  so  steep  that  a  boulder  set  in  motion  goes 
thundering  down  and  does  not  stop  until  it  reaches  the 
bottom  of  the  gorge.  But  thrilling  as  this  passage  is, 
up  the  sinuous  roadway  along  the  mountain  side,  it  has 
no  real  elements  of  danger  in  it.  No  accident  has  ever 
happened  here  and,  should  a  part  of  the  train  break  away, 
it  would  be  stopped  in  less  than  a  car's  length  by  the 
prompt  action  of  the  automatic  brake  with  which  all 
trains  on  this  mountain-climbing  system  are  provided. 
But  it  is  from  the  summit  of  the  Pass  that  one  looks  upon 
a  scene  of  stupendous  magnificence.  From  the  pinnacle 
he  gazes  eastward  to  the  dim  horizon  line  where  the 
cloudless  sky  shuts  down  upon  the  ever-widening  plains, 
broken,  to  the  south,  by  the  symmetrical  Spanish  peaks. 
Turning  to  the  west,  he  sees  the  majestic  form  of  Sierra 
Blanca,  the  loftiest  mountain  in  the  Rocky  range,  and 
rendered  more  remarkable  by  its  triple  peak,  while,  to 
the  north,  La  Veta  mountain  stands  stupendous  and 
sublime.  The  climb  has  been  difficult  up  the  tremendous 
grade  of  21 1  feet  to  the  mile,  but,  when  the  apex  has 
been  reached,  the  train  glides  into  the  timber  and  halts 
at  the  handsome  stone  station  over  nine  thousand  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  distant  sea. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  19 


VETA  PASS. 

EDGAR   PEARSON. 

Imperial  heights  of  Veta's  star-crowned  crest! 

Entranced  with  rapture  on  the  Pass  I  stand, 
San  Luis  park,  an  empire,  to  the  west, 

Sky-piercing  peaks  upreared  on  every  hand. 

Chiefest  of  all  Sierra  Blanca  towers, 

Monarch  of  mountains,  whose  imperial  frown 

Marks  him  supreme  among  these  giant  powers, 
Whose  Titan  brow  upbears  a  triple  crown. 

Serenely  grand  against  the  azure  sky, 
Far  to  the  «ast,  the  Spanish  peaks  uprear 

Twin  pyramids,  snow-crowned  and  high, 
A  dream  of  Egypt  to  the  sight  appear. 

A  granite  ocean  slumbers  at  my  feet, 

Whose  waves  are  mountains  and  whose  foam  is  snov  ; 
The  clouds  beneath  me,  like  a  ghostly  fleet, 

Sail  slowly  by,  but  whither  none  may  know. 

Below  the  serpent  path,  the  sinuous  coil, 

By  which  we  pass  beyond  these  granite  bars, 

Bears  witness  that  it  is  alone  by  toil 

Mankind  may  reach  at  last  the  shining  stars. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  21 

SIERRA  BLANCA. 

SIERRA  BLANCA  is  the  monarch  of  the  Rocky 
range  and  the  loftiest  mountain,  with  one  excep- 
tion, in  the  United  States.  It  is  'characterized  by 
the  peculiarity  of  a  triple  peak  and  rises  directly  from  the 
plain  to  the  stupendous  height  of  14,469  feet,  over  two 
miles  and  three-fifths  of  sheer  ascent.  A  magnificent  view 
of  this  mountain  is  obtained  from  the  cars  of  the  Denver 
&  Rio  Grande  Railroad  as  soon  as  the  descent  from  Veta 
Pass  into  the  San  Luis  Valley  has  been  made.  Surely  it 
is  worth  a  journey  across  the  continent  to  obtain  a  view  of 
such  a  mountain!  Although  a  part  of  the  range,  it  stands 
at  the  head  of  the  valley,  like  a  monarch  taking  pre- 
cedence of  a  lordly  retinue.  Two-thirds  of  its  height  is 
above  timber-line,  bare  and  desolate,  and  except  for  a 
month  or  two  of  midsummer,  dazzling  white  with  snow, 
while  in  its  abysmal  gorges  it  holds  eternal  reservoirs  of  ice. 

"  Oh,  sacred  mount  with  kingly  crest 

Through  tideless  ether  reaching, 
The  earth-world  kneels  to  hear  the  prayer 

Thy  dusky  slopes  are  teaching. 
With  mystic  glow  on  sunset  eyes 
All  trembling  lie  thy  blood-red  leaves, 
Their  silken  veins  with  gold  inwrought. 
Oh,  glorious  is  thy  world-wide  thought!" 

The  lower  slopes  of  the  mountain  are  clad  in  vast 
forests  of  pine  and  hemlock,  while  its  grand  triad  of  gray 
granite  peaks  lift  into  the  sky  their  sharp  pyramidal  pin- 
nacles, splintered  and  furrowed  by  the  storm-compelling 
and  omnipotent  hand  of  the  Almighty.  To  the  north  and 
south,  for  a  distance  of  nearly  two  hundred  miles,  it  is 
flanked  by  the  serrated  crests  of  the  Sangre  de  Cristo 
range,  the  whole  forming  a  panorama  of  unexampled 
grandeur  and  beauty. 


22 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


SIERRA    BLANCA. 


PATIENCE    STAPLETON. 


North  star  o'er  seas  of  land, 
Mountain,  serene  and  grand, 
Sentinel  of  the  Rockies  stand, 

Sierra  Blanca; 
Dial  of  recorded  time 
Reared  in  solitude  sublime. 


In  the  light  of  that  far  day 

What  strange  races,  who  shall  say, 

Lived  their  lives  and  went  their  way? 

Sierra  Blanca; 

What  strange  monsters  of  the  deep 
Went  to  dust  in  death's  last  sleep? 


Poets,  raptured,  long  have  told 
Of  the  crown  of  sunset  gold 
Resting  on  thy  crest  so  old, 

Sierra  Blanca; 
In  all  this  land  is  given 
Thee  to  be  nighest  Heaven. 


Ere  that  exile  on  him  fell 
Once  the  Indian  loved  him  well, 
Happy  in  thy  shades  to  dwell, 

Sierra  Blanca; 
Now  the  wolf  in  hidden  lair 
Unmolested  scents  the  air. 


Vision  to  the  artist  rare 

Is  the  purple  robe  so  fair 

Thou  with  kingly  grace  doth  wear, 

Sierra  Blanca; 

And  thy  velvet  pall  of  night, 
Crown  stars  deck  with  jewels  bright. 


Once  the  Spanish  cavalier 
Held  thee  in  his  heart  so  dear, 
Half  in  love,  half  in  fear, 

Sierra  Blanca; 

Martyr  priests  might  happy  sigh 
At  thy  glorious  feet  to  die. 


Once  the  waves  of  oceans  past — 
Silver  waves  rolling  fast — 
Sunny  spray  o'er  thee  cast, 

Sierra  Blanca; 

Forests  green  crept  up  thy  side, 
Followed  close  the  ebbing  tide. 


Over  all  the  green  plains  wide 
Peace  and  joy  do  now  abide, 
Happy  homes  below  thee  hide, 

Sierra  Blanca; 
High  uplifted  childish  eyes 
Liken  thee  to  Paradise. 


24  RHYMES    OF   THE    ROCKIES. 

WAGON  WHEEL  GAP. 

LN  the  Del  Norte  Branch  of  the  Denver  &  Rio  Grande 
Railroad  is  Wagon  Wheel  Gap,  which  has  become 
the  favorite  sporting  ground  for  seekers  of  health 
and  the  lovers  of  the  rod  and  gun.  The  scenery  is  won- 
derfully beautiful.  As  the  Gap  is  approached  the  valley 
narrows  until  the  river  is  hemmed  in  between  massive 
walls  of  solid  rock  and  rise  to  such  a  height  on  either  side 
as  to  throw  the  passage  into  twilight  shadow.  The  river 
rushes  roaring  down  over  gleaming  gravel  or  precipitous 
ledges.  Progressing,  the  scene  becomes  wilder  and  more 
romantic,  until  at  last  the  waters  of  the  Rio  Grande  pour 
through  a  cleft  in  the  rocks  just  wide  enough  to  allow  the 
construction  of  a  road  along  the  river's  edge.  On  the 
right,  as  one  enters,  tower  cliffs  to  a  tremendous  height, 
suggestive  in  their  appearance  to  the  Palisades  of  the 
Hudson.  On  the  left  rises  the  round  shoulder  of  a  massive 
mountain.  The  vast  wall  is  unbroken  for  more  than  half 
a  mile,  its  crest  presenting  an  almost  unserrated  sky-line. 
Once  through  the  Gap,  the  traveler,  looking  toward  the 
south,  sees  a  valley  encroached  upon  and  surrounded  by 
hills 

"  Bathed  in  the  tenderest  purple  of  distance, 
Tinted  and  shadowed  by  pencils  of  air." 

Here  is  an  old  stage  station,  a  primitive  and  pictur- 
esque structure  of  hewn  logs,  made  cool  and  inviting  by 
wide-roofed  verandas.  Not  a  hundred  feet  away  rolls  the 
Rio  Grande  river,  swarming  with  trout.  A  drive  of  a  mile 
along  a  winding  road,  each  turn  in  which  reveals  new 
scenic  beauties,  brings  the  tourist  to  the  famous  springs. 
The  medicinal  qualities  of  the  waters,  both  of  the  cold  and 
hot  springs,  have  been  thoroughly  tested  and  proved  equal, 
if  not  superior,  to  the  Hot  Springs  of  Arkansas. 


RHYMES    OF   THE    ROCKIES.  25 


WAGON  WHEEL  GAP. 

BY   H.  L.  WASSON. 

So  "  pretty  "  expresses  the  scene  tc  you — 

You  only  gather  what  meets  the  eye, 
A  charming  spot  for  a  picture  view ; 

A  vale  where  the  sunbeams  tender  lie. 

But  to  us,  who  know  how  sublime  can  be 

This  relic  of  Eden  in  summer  green, 
Where  the  Rio  Grande  sings  of  the  sea, 

And  its  silver  waves  fringe  the  rocks  between, 

The  word  falls  null,  for  our  trained  ears 

In  every  ripple  detect  a  sob; 
But  we  face  our  birthright  of  toil  and  tears 

With  hearts  that  beat  to  a  fearless  throb. 

For  have  we  not  seen  the  Storm  King  ride 
Through  the  narrow  gorge  with  his  armed  Knights, 

Their  snow-white  banners  in  martial  pride 
Defiantly  streaming  upon  the  heights; 

Have  felt  the  shock  as  they  thundered  past, 
On  the  heart  of  Nature,  pulsing  strong, 

Their  bugle  note  but  a  shrieking  blast, 

Prolonged  and  clear  as  a  Norse  God's  song. 

Yes,  seen  the  morning  encrown  the  peaks 

In  silver  beams  on  a  helmet  blue, 
And  learned  the  language  this  grandeur  speaks — 

No  tempest  conquers  if  faith  stands  true. 

And  the  scene  becomes  a  cathedral  pile — 

A  choir  in  the  Rio  Grande  hymn, 
Our  passions  buried  in  every  aisle, 

And  peace,  High  Priest  at  the  altar  dim. 


TOLTEC  GORGE  AND  TUNNEL. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  2/ 


TOLTEC  GORGE. 

N  hour's  ride  from  Antonita  brings  the  traveler  to 
the  brow  of  a  precipitous  hill,  from  whence  he 
looks  down  on  the  picturesque  valley  of  the  Los 
Pinos.  As  the  advance  is  made  around  mountain  spurs 
and  deep  ravines,  glimpses  are  caught  of  profound  depths 
and  towering  heights,  and  then  the  train,  making  a  detour 
of  four  miles  around  a  side  cafton,  plunges  into  the 
blackness  of  Toltec  tunnel,  which  is  remarkable  in  that 
it  pierces  the  summit  of  the  mountain  instead  of  its  base. 
Twelve  hundred  feet  of  perpendicular  descent  would  take 
one  to  the  bottom  of  the  gorge,  while  the  seared  and 
wrinkled  expanse  of  the  opposite  wall  confronts  us,  lifting 
its  massive  bulwarks  high  above  us, 

"  Fronting  heaven's  splendor, 
Strong  and  full  and  clear." 

When  the  train  emerges  from  the  tunnel  it  is  upon  the 
brink  of  a  precipice.  A  solid  bridge  of  trestle-work,  set  in 
the  rock  after  the  manner  of  a  balcony,  supports  the  track, 
and  from  this  coigne  of  vantage  the  traveler  beholds  a 
most  thrilling  spectacle.  The  tremendous  gorge,  whose 
sides  are  splintered  rocks  and  monumental  crags  and 
whose  depths  are  filled  with  the  snt>w-white  waters  of 
a  foaming  torrent,  lies  beneath  him,  the  blue  sky  is  above 
him  and  all  around  the  majesty  and  mystery  of  the 
mountains.  On  the  2Oth  day  of  September,  1881,  the 
National  Association  of  General  Passenger  Agents  (then 
on  an  excursion  over  the  Denver  &  Rio  Grande  Railroad), 
at  the  time  President  Garfield  was  being  buried  in  Cleve- 
land, held  memorial  services  at  the  mouth  of  Toltec  tun- 
nel and  since  have  erected  a  beautiful  monument  in  com- 
memoration of  the  event. 


28  RHYMES    OF   THE    ROCKIES. 


TOLTEC  GORGE. 

PATIENCE  STAPLETON. 

Against  the  snows  of  cloud  hills  high, 

Majestic  mountains,  centuries  old, 
Reach  rugged  heights  far  up  the  sky, 

Like  Babel's  tower  in  story  old. 

The  winds  of  night  in  furious  rage 

Beat  'gainst  the  wall  'twixt  earth  and  Heaven; 
Each  element  tireless  war  did  wage ; 

Backward,  defeated  each  was  driven. 


The  warm  Chinook  o'er  the  prairie  sighed; 

The  north  wind  fled  to  frozen  seas ; 
The  chill  east  wind  in  coast  fogs  died; 

The  avalanche  crashed  amid  the  trees. 


Furrowed  and  tortured,  in  silent  woe, 
One  mountain  bore  the  storms  of  ages, 

And  sun  of  summer  or  winter's  snow 
Left  no  trace  on  its  mystic  pages. 

But  a  drift  of  snow  that  lay  long  hidden 
In  creviced  niche  on  a  lean  peak's  crest, 

Wept  bitter  tears  that  crept  unchidden 

Far  down  the  mountain's  unyielding  breast. 

The  river  down  in  the  valley  knew, 

For  the  stream  whispered  when  they  met — 

The  brook  and  river — and,  laughing,  too, 
The  hills  had  never  a  thought  as  yet. 

In  years  the  mountain's  heart  of  rock 
Yields  to  the  subtle  brook,  and  fast, 

With  thunder  peal  and  earthquake  shock, 
Crashed  chasm  open — defeat  at  last. 

Centuries  pass.     The  deep  drifted  snows 
Fade  'neath  summer  suns,  and  the  stream 

Widens  the  gorge,  and  misty  breath  throws 
High  up  black  walls  that  silvery  gleam. 

But  a  web  is  cast  of  iron  strong, 

Like  a  spider's  home  of  thread-like  coil. 

The  brook  is  tamed,  and  its  echoing  song 
Praises  the  power  of  human  toil. 


THE  NEEDLE  MOUNTAINS. 


3O  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


ANIMAS    CANON. 

NIMAS  CANON  is  one  of  the  wildest  and  most  pict- 
uresque gorges  in  the  Rocky  mountains.  Through 
it  the  Rio  de  las  Animas  Perdidas,  or  "  River  of 
Lost  Souls,"  finds  its  way  to  the  valley  below.  For  a 
dozen  miles  north  of  Durango  the  Denver  &  Rio  Grande 
Railroad  traverses  the  fertile  and  cultivated  valley  of  the 
Animas  in  its  approach  to  the  canon.  Soon  the  valley 
becomes  more  broken  and  contracted,  the  approaching 
walls  grow  more  precipitous  and  the  smooth  meadows 
give  place  to  stately  pines  and  sighing  sycamores.  The 
silvery  Animas  frets  in  its  narrowing  bed  and  breaks  into 
foam  against  the  opposing  boulders.  The  road  climbs 
and  clings  to  the  rising  cliffs  and  presently  the  earth  and 
stately  pines  have  receded  and  the  train  rolls  along  a  mere 
granite  shelf  in  mid-air.  Above,  the  vertical  wall  rises  a 
thousand  feet;  below,  hundreds  of  feet  of  perpendicular 
depth  and  a  fathomless  river.  The  cafion  is  here  a  mere 
rent  in  the  mountain,  so  narrow  one  may  toss  a  pebble 
across,  and  the  cramped  stream  has  assumed  the  deep 
emerald  hue  of  the  ocean.  In  the  shadows  of  the  rocks 
all  is  solitary,  and  weird,  and  awful.  The  startled  traveler 
quickly  loses  all  apprehension  in  the  wondrous  beauty  and 
grandeur  of  the  scene  and,  as  successive  curves  repeat 
and  enhance  the  enchantment,  nature  asserts  herself  in 
ecstacy.  Emerging  from  the  marvelous  gorge,  the  bed  of 
the  cafion  rapidly  rises  until  the  roadway  is  but  a  few  feet 
above  the  stream.  Dark  walls  of  rock  are  replaced  with 
clustering  mountains  of  supreme  height,  whose  abruptness 
defies  the  toot  of  man,  and  The  Needles,  the  most  peculiar 
and  striking  of  the  Rockies,  thrust  their  splintered  pinna- 
cles into  the  regions  of  perpetual  snow. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  3! 


RIO  DE   LAS  ANIMAS  PERDIDAS. 

EDGAR    P.  VANGASSEN. 

Rapid  the  current  rolls 

In  the  river  of  lost  souls! 

Rapid  and  white  when  the  night 

Lies  swathed  in  the  warm  moonlight. 

Rapid  and  white  in  the  day 

As  it  swirls  along  its  way, 

Born  of  the  silvery  rills 

In  the  pine  and  cedared  hills. 

Flashing,  dashing, 

Swirling,  crashing, 
Moaning  in  the  gulch  of  shadow, 
Laughing  through  the  shining  meadow, 
Hugging  close  the  rocky  rifts, 
Gliding  amid  boulder  drifts; 

Loving,  smiling, 

Care  beguiling, 
Cool  and  limpid  in  the  shade ; 
"Warm  and  sunny  in  the  glade ; 
Rapid  the  current  rolls 
In  the  river  of  lost  souls. 


Still  I  linger  by  the  stream 

As  if  in  a  pleasant  dream, 

With  the  current  running  down 

Through  the  canon,  past  the  town, 

To  the  pleasant  lands  that  lie 

Underneath  a  southern  sky. 

Let  the  snow  rest  on  the  hills, 

Let  the  snow  melt  in  the  rills, 

So  the  shining  volume  flows 

Where  the  peach's  pink  bloom  blows. 


Lotos  land  in  legend  lies 
Hidden  amid  shadowed  skies; 
Here,  a  human  Eden  waits 
At  the  shining  river's  gates, 
Opening  for  willing  hands 
Into  fruitful  orchard  lands. 
Souls  lost  in  such  vale  as  this 
Wake  again  in  lands  of  bliss. 
He  who  in  these  meadows  stands 
Holds  Love's  Lotos  in  his  hands. 


HOMES  OF  THE  CLIFF  DWELLERS. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  33 

HOMES    OF    THE    CLIFF-DWELLERS. 

of  the  most  attractive  portions  of  Colorado,  to 
the  scientist,  antiquarian  and,  indeed,  the  general 
tourist,  is  that  part  in  which  are  found  the  cliff- 
dwellings  of  a  long  extinct  race.  A  brief  description  of 
one  found  in  Mancos  cafton  will  serve  as  a  characterization 
of  all.  Perched  seven  hundred  feet  above  the  valley,  on  a 
little  ledge  only  just  large  enough  to  hold  it,  stands  a  two- 
story  house  made  of  finely-cut  sandstone,  each  block  about 
fourteen  by  six  inches,  accurately  fitted  and  set  in  mortar, 
now  harder  than  the  stone  itself.  The  floor  is  the  ledge 
of  rock  and  the  roof  the  overhanging  cliff.  There  are 
three  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  each  one  six  by  nine 
feet,  with  partition  walls  of  faced  stone.  Traces  of  a  floor 
which  once  separated  the  upper  from  the  lower  story  still 
remain.  Each  of  the  stories  is  six  feet  in  height  and  all 
the  rooms  are  nicely  plastered  and  painted  what  now  looks 
a  dull  brick  red  color,  with  a  white  band  along  the  floor. 
The  windows  are  square  apertures  with  no  signs  of  glaz- 
ing, commanding  a  view  of  the  whole  valley  for  many 
miles.  The  illustration  shows  a  fortified  watch-tower,  indi- 
cating that  these  strange  cliff-dwelling  people  were  pre- 
pared to  resist  assault.  Traditions  are  few  and  of  history 
there  is  nothing  concerning  this  lost  race.  Their  ruined 
houses  only  remain  and  some  broken  fragments  of  the 
implements  made  use  of  in  war  and  peace.  Typical  cliff- 
dwellings  are  found  near  Espanola,  the  southern  terminus 
of  the  New  Mexico  extension  of  the  Denver  &  Rio  Grande 
Railroad,  and  in  the  Animas  valley,  twenty-five  miles  south 
of  Durango.  Researches  are  in  progress  concerning  these 
extremely  interesting  ruins  and  new  facts  are  being 
developed  concerning  their  architecture,  but  it  is  quite 
improbable  that  any  certain  light  will  ever  be  thrown  on 
their  origin  or  history. 


34  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


HOMES    OF    THE    CLIFF-DWELLERS, 

HEADLANDS     OF     HOVEN-WEEP. 

STANLEY   WOOD. 

In  the  sad  Southwest,  in  the  mystical  Sunland, 

Far  from  the  toil  and  the  turmoil  of  gain; 
Hid  in  the  heart  of  the  only — the  one  land 

Beloved  of  the  Sun,  and  bereft  of  the  rain  ; 
The  one  weird  land  where  the  wild  winds  blowing, 

Sweep  with  a  wail  o'er  the  plains  of  the  dead, 
A  ruin,  ancient  beyond  all  knowing, 

Rears  its  head. 

On  the  cafion's  side,  in  the  ample  hollow, 

That  the  keen  winds  carved  in  ages  past, 
The  Castle  walls,  like  the  nest  of  a  swallow, 

Have  clung  and  have  crumbled  to  this  at  last. 
The  ages  since  man's  foot  has  rested 

Within  these  walls,  no  man  may  know; 
For  here  the  fierce  grey  eagle  nested 

Long  ago. 

Above  those  walls  the  crags  lean  over, 

Below,  they  dip  to  the  river's  bed ; 
Between,  fierce-winged  creatures  hover, 

Beyond,  the  plain's  wild  waste  is  spread. 
No  foot  has  climbed  the  pathway  dizzy, 

That  crawls  away  from  the  blasted  heath, 
Since  last  it  felt  the  ever  busy 

Foot  of  Death. 

In  that  haunted  castle — it  must  be  haunted, 

For  men  have  lived  here,  and  men  have  died, 
And  maidens  loved,  and  lovers  daunted, 

Have  hoped  and  feared,  have  laughed  and  sighed — 
In  that  haunted  Castle  the  dust  has  drifted, 

But  the  eagles  only  may  hope  to  see 
What  shattered  Shrines  and  what  Altars  rifted, 

There  may  be. 


RHYMES    Ot    THE    ROCKIES.  35 

The  white,  bright  rajs  of  the  sunbeam  sought  it, 

The  cold,  clear  light  of  the  moon  fell  here, 
The  west  wind  sighed,  and  the  south  wind  brought  it, 

Songs  of  Summer  year  after  year. 
Runes  of  Summer,  but  mute  and  runeless, 

The  Castle  stood ;  no  voice  was  heard, 
Save  the  harsh,  discordant,  wild  and  tuneless 

Cry  of  bird. 

The  spring  rains  poured,  and  the  torrent  rifted 

A  deeper  way ; — the  foam-flakes  fell, 
Held  for  a  moment  poised  and  lifted, 

Down  to  a  fiercer  whirlpool's  hell. 
On  the  Castle  tower  no  guard,  in  wonder, 

Paused  in  his  marching  to  and  fro, 
For  on  the  turret  the  mighty  thunder 

Found  no  foe. 

No  voice  of  Spring — no  Summer  glories 

May  wake  the  warders  from  their  sleep, 
Their  graves  are  made  by  the  sad  Dolores, 

And  the  barren  headlands  of  Hoven-weep. 
Their  graves  are  nameless — their  race  forgotten, 

Their  deeds,  their  words,  their  fate,  are  one 
With  the  mist,  long  ages  past  begotten, 

Of  the  Sun. 

Those  castled  cliffs  they  made  their  dwelling, 

They  lived  and  loved,  they  fought  and  fell, 
No  faint,  far  voice  comes  to  us  telling 

More  than  those  crumbling  walls  can  tell. 
They  lived  their  life,  their  fate  fulfilling, 

Then  drew  their  last  faint,  faltering  breath, 
Their  hearts,  congealed,  clutched  by  the  chilling 

Hand  of  Death. 

Dismantled  towers,  and  turrets  broken. 

Like  grim  and  war-worn  braves  who  keep 
A  silent  guard,  with  grief  unspoken 

Watch  o'er  the  graves  by  the  Hoven-weep. 
The  nameless  graves  of  a  race  forgotten ; 

Whose  deeds,  whose  words,  whose  fate  are  one 
With  the  mist,  long  ages  past  beeotten, 

Of  the  Sun. 


THE  ROYAL  GORGE. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  37 

THE  ROYAL  GORGE. 

THE  crowning  wonder  of  this  wonderful  Denver  & 
Rio  Grande  Railroad  is  the  Royal  Gorge.  Situated 
between  Cafion  City  and  Salida,  it  is  easy  of  access 
either  from  Denver  or  Pueblo.  After  the  entrance  of  the 
cafion  has  been  made,  surprise  and  almost  terror  comes. 
The  train  rolls  around  a  long  curve  close  under  a  wall 
of  black  and  banded  granite,  beside  which  the  ponderous 
locomotive  shrinks  to  a  mere  dot,  as  if  swinging  on 
some  pivot  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain,  or  captured 
by  a  centripetal  force  that  would  never  resign  its  grasp. 
Almost  a  whole  circle  is  accomplished  and  the  grand 
amphitheatrical  sweep  of  the  wall  shows  no  break  in  its 
smooth  and  zenith-cutting  fa9ade.  Will  the  journey  end 
here?  Is  it  a  mistake  that  this  crevice  goes  through  the 
range?  Does  not  all  this  mad  water  gush  from  some 
powerful  spring,  or  boil  out  of  a  subterranean  channel 
impenetrable  to  us?  No,  it  opens.  Resisting  centripetal, 
centrifugal  force  claims  the  train  and  it  breaks  away  at  a 
tangent  past  the  edge  or  round  the  corner  of  the  great 
black  wall  which  compelled  its  detour  and  that  of  the 
river  before  it.  Now,  what  glories  of  rock-piling  confront 
the  wide  distended  eye.  How  those  sharp-edged  cliffs, 
standing  with  upright  heads  that  play  at  hand-ball  with 
the  clouds,  alternate  with  one  another,  so  that  first  the 
right,  then  the  left,  then  the  right  one  beyond  strike  our 
view,  each  one  half  obscured  by  its  fellow  in  front,  each 
showing  itself  level-browed  with  its  comrades  as  we  come 
even  with  it,  each  a  score  of  hundreds  of  dizzy  feet  in 
height,  rising  perpendicular  from  the  water  and  the  track, 
splintered  atop  into  airy  pinnacles,  braced  behind  against 
the  almost  continental  mass  through  which  the  chasm  has 
been  cleft.  This  is  the  Royal  Gorge  ! 


38  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


THE  ROYAL  GORGE. 

Ci.  G.  FERGUSON. 

In  the  Royal  Gorge  I  stand, 

With  its  mountain  forms  around  me, 
With  infinity  behind  me  and  infinity  before; 

Cliff  and  chasm  on  every  hand, 
Peaks  and  pinnacles  surround  me; 

At  my  feet  the  river  rushes  with  its  never-ceasing  roar. 


Oh!  the  power  that  piled  these  wonders, 

As  the  mountains  took  their  stations; 
As  a  great  red  belt  rose  upward  in  a  glittering  zone  of  fire. 

Oh!  the  crash  of  blended  thunders 
Shaking  earth  to  its  foundations, 

As  each  struggling  cliff  rose  upward,  climbing  higher,  ever  higher. 

Oh!  the  crashing  and  the  groaning, 

And  the  deep  and  awful  shudder 
As  that  great  red  belt  was  parted  and  the  mountains  crashed  in  twain ; 

And  the  Arkansas  came  roaring, 
Raging  with  its  dreadful  thunder, 

Sweeping  through  the  mighty  chasm  dashing  madly  toward  the  main. 

Oh!  this  myriad  crested  canon, 

With  its  walls  of  massive  marble, 
With  the  granite  and  red  sandstone  piled  in  peaks  that  pierce  the  sky; 

Where  no  bird  dare  dip  its  pinion 
In  the  narrow  veil  of  azure, 

Where  the  solemn  shadows  linger  o'er  the  river  rolling  by. 

Mortal !  ere  you  enter  here, 

Pause  and  bare  thy  brow  before  Him, 
You  are  entering  a  temple  which  the  Mighty  One  did  rear. 

Put  thy  shoes  from  off  thy  feet, 
And  with  sacred  awe  adore  Him, 

Throned  in  awful  might  and  majesty,  the  Great  One  dwelleth  here. 


40  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


TWIN  LAKES. 

^T^UE  TWIN  LAKES  possess  peculiar  merits  as  a 
place  of  resort.  Lying  at  an  altitude  of  9,357  feet 
1  at  the  mouth  of  a  canon,  in  a  little  nook,  surrounded 
by  lofty  mountains,  from  whose  never-failing  snows  their 
waters  are  fed,  their  seclusions  invite  the  tired  denizens  of 
dusty  cities  to  fly  from  debilitating  heat  and  the  turmoil 
of  traffic  to  a  quiet  haven  where  "Jack  Frost"  makes  him- 
self at  home  in  July  and  August.  The  lakes  are  easily 
reached  by  an  hour's  ride  from  Granite,  a  station  on  the 
Leadville  Branch  of  the  Denver  &  Rio  Grande  Railroad. 
On  the  lakes  are  numerous  sail  and  row-boats  and  fishing 
tackle  can  always  be  obtained.  Both  lakes  are  well  stocked 
with  fish  and  the  neighboring  streams  also  abound  in 
mountain  trout.  The  scene  is  of  surpassing  beauty  and 
one  is  loth  to  leave 

"The  green  sea  wave,  whose  waters  gleam 

Limpid,  as  if  her  mines  of  pearl 
Were  melted  all  to  form  the  stream ; 

And  her  fair  islets,  small  and  bright, 
With  their  green  shores  reflected  there, 

Look  like  those  Peri  isles  of  light 
That  hang  by  spell-work  in  the  air." 

Surrounding  the  lakes  are  large  forests  of  pine  which 
add  their  characteristic  odor  to  the  air.  The  nearest 
mountains,  whose  forms  are  reflected  in  the  placid  waters, 
are  Mount  Elbert,  14,351  feet  in  height,  La  Plata,  14,311 
(each  higher  than  Pike's  Peak),  Lake  mountain  and 
the  Twin  Peaks.  Just  across  the  narrow  Arkansas  valley 
rises  Mount  Sheridan,  far  above  timber  line,  flanked  by 
the  hoary  summits  of  Park  range.  Twin  Lakes  is  one  of 
the  highest  of  the  popular  Rocky  mountain  resorts  and 
furnishes  an  unfailing  "antidote"  for  hot  weather. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  4! 


TWIN   LAKES. 

THE     YACHT     DAUNTLESS. 
HELEN    HUNT  JACKSON    IN   YOUTHS   COMPANION. 

Far  off  in  the  Rocky  mountains 
And.  two  miles  up  in  the  air, 

Lie  the  Twin  Lakes,  close  together, 
All  rippling,  shining  and  fair. 

The  mountains  wall  in  the  water; 

It  looks  like  a  great  blue  cup; 
And  the  sky  looks  like  another 

Turned  over,  bottom  side  up. 

'Tis  the  sweetest  place  I  know  of; 

No  sweeter  one  could  be  planned 
For  summer  and  winter  pleasure 

On  the  water  and  the  land. 


Each  sunset  and  sunrise,  glowing 
With  bright  colors,  spread  the  lake, 

And  along  the  shore  gay  blossoms 
Even  brighter  colors  make. 

But  there  were  only  little  row-boats 
Which  crept  o'er  the  water  blue, 

And  every  one  said,  "  If  onlv 
With  a  swelling  sail  we  flew! " 

"  We'll  fly  with  a  sail  all  swelling, 
And  make  light  work  of  the  miles ! 

I'll  build  with  my  hands  a  vessel," 
Cried  out  the  good  Captain  Stiles. 


42  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 

So  he  hewed  hint  down  great  fir-trees, 
And  hewed  him  logs  of  the  pine, 

And  the  splendid  slender  balsams, 
All  full  of  fragrances  fine. 

And  he  sawed  and  planed  and  hammered 
With  tools  of  good  iron  and  steel, 

And  he  made  the  deck  all  shining, 
And  bent  and  hollowed  the  keel. 

And  he  set  the  mast  of  balsam 
Upright,  as  it  used  to  grow, 

And  he  sewed  a  sail  of  canvas, 
And  a  pennon  white  as  snow. 

And  I  wonder  when  he  launched  it 
What  the  birds  thought  overhead — 

If  they  thought  it  was  another 

Great  bird  with  its  wings  outspread. 

Then  he  christened  it  "  The  Dauntless," 
Though  why  I  could  never  see ; 

For  a  ship  more  free  from  danger 
In  the  world  there  could  not  be. 

So  long  as  she  holds  together, 

With  her  timbers  strong  and  sound, 

The  lake  will  but  gently  rock  her, 
The  mountains  will  wall  her  round. 

Far  off  in  the  Rocky  mountains, 
And  two  miles  up  in  the  air, 

On  the  lake  so  blue  and  shining, 
Her  light  burdens  she  will  beaV. 

And  if  you  will  come  some  summer 
And  journey  our  mountains  through, 

You  can  sail  in  this  Yacht  Dauntless, 
And  see  I  have  told  you  true! 


MOUNT  OF  THE  HOLY  CRO33. 


44  RHYMES    OF   THE    ROCKIES. 


MOUNT  OF  THE  HOLY  CROSS. 

rROM   the   crest  of    Fremont   Pass,  and    also    from 
Tennessee  Pass,  can  be  seen  the  Mount  of  the  Holy 
Cross.     It  is  a  summit  that  would  attract  the  eye 
anywhere,  its  foot  hidden  in  verdurous  hills,  guarded  by 
knightly  crags  half  buried  in  seething  clouds,  its  helmet 
vertical,  frowning,  plumed  with  gleaming  snow, 

"Aye,  every  inch  a  king." 

The  snow-white  emblem  of  the  Christian  faith  gleams 
with  bright  splendor  against  an  azure  sky.  The  cross  is 
formed  by  two  transverse  canons  of  immense  depth  riven 
down  and  across  the  summit  of  the  mountain.  In  these 
canons  lies  eternal  snow.  The  symbol  is  perfect  in  shape, 
and  while  gazing  with  wonder  and  awe  upon  this  "sign  set 
in  the  heavens,"  the  adventurous  wayfarer  at  last  realizes 
that  he  has  reached  that  height  "around  whose  summit 
splendid  visions  rise"  and  those  thrilling  lines  of  Keats 
come  involuntarily  to  his  lips: 

"  Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 

Or  like  stout  Cortes,  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 

Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent  upon  a  peak  in  Darien." 

Shining  grandly  out  of  the  pure  ether  and  above  all 
turbulence  of  earthly  strife,  it  seems  to  say:  "Humble 
thyself,  O  man!  Uncover  thy  head,  forget  not  that  as  high 
as  gleams  the  splendor  of  this  ever-living  cross  above  thy 
gilded  spires,  so  are  the  thoughts  of  its  Creator  above 
thy  thoughts,  his  ways  above  thy  ways." 


RHYMES    OF   THE    ROCKIES.  45 


MOUNT  OF  THE  HOLY  CROSS, 


WILL    L.   VISCHEK. 


Where  Nature's  God  hath  roughest  wrought; 

Where  spring  the  purest  fountains; 
Where  long  ago  the  Titans  fought  » 

And  hurled  for  missiles,  mountains; 
Where  everlasting  snows  abide, 

And  tempest  clouds  are  driven 
Along  the  solid  granite  side 

Of  yawning  cafions,  riven 
Deep  in  the  Rockies'  grandest  pride 

That  lifts  its  head  to  heaven ; 

Amid  the  wilds,  where  awful  rise 

The  giant  peaks,  that  fathom 
Night's  starry  depths  and  day's  blue  skies, 

And  brood  above  the  chasm, 
One  monarch  'mongst  the  mighty  hills 

Rears  high  his  summit  hoary, 
Like  some  grim  king  whose  legend  fills 

A  page  of  olden  story, 
And  heart  o'erawes  and  soul  enthrills 

Before  his  regal  glory. 

The  holy  cross  of  Christian  faith, 
Above  the  royal  velvet 

In  beauty  shines,  an  emblem  wraith, 
High  on  the  beetling  helmet; 

Its  white  arms  stretching  through  the  sheen 
Of  silvery  mist,  are  gleaming; 

A  talisman,  the  world  to  screen, 
Hope's  symbol,  in  its  seeming; 

A  wonder  grand,  a  joy  serene, 
Upon  the  ages  beaming. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  47 

FREMONT   PASS. 

^Tp  H ROUGH  an  Arcadian  valley  the  approach  to  Fre- 
mont Pass  is  made.  A  famous  pass  with  the 
1  historic  name  of  him  who  has  been  called  the 
"pathfinder,"  although  a  later  day  has  witnessed  greater 
achievements  than  his  among  the  Rocky  mountains.  A 
journey  here  deserves  the  name  of  a  pilgrimage,  for  from 
the  summit  of  the  Pass  the  traveler  can  discern  the 
"Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross."  The  ascent  is  one  replete 
with  vivid  interest.  Fainter  and  fainter  grow  the  lines  of 
objects  in  the  valley,  until  at  last  the  clouds  envelop  the 
train,  and  at  the  next  moment  the  traveler  looks  down 
upon  a  rolling  mass  of  vapor  through  which  the  light 
strikes  in  many  colored  beams.  The  sublimity  of  the 
scene  forbids  all  thoughts  other  than  those  of  reverence 
and  rapture.  The  Denver  &  Rio  Grande  Railroad  crosses 
the  pass  at  an  altitude  of  eleven  thousand  five  hundred 
and  forty  feet,  higher  than  any  iron  trail  yet  established 
in  North  America  or  the  Old  World.  Down  in  the  valley 
the  Arkansas  river  has  its  source  in  a  little  rivulet  one 
could  stand  astride  like  another  Colossus  of  Rhodes. 

"There  in  the  gorges  that  widen,  descending 
From  cloud  and  from  cold  into  summer  eternal, 
Gather  the  threads  of  the  ice-gendered  fountains — 
Gather  to  riotous  torrents  of  crystal, 
And  giving  each  shelvy  recess  where  they  dally 
The  blooms  of  the  north  and  its  evergreen  turfage." 

This  little  brook  pushes  its  way  eastward,  escapes  through 
the  Grand  cafton  with  indescribable  turmoil,  and  always 
growing  bigger,  broader  and  stronger,  deeper  and  more 
dignified  until  it  leaves  the  mountains,  finally  strikes 
boldly  across  a  thousand  miles  of  rolling  prairie  to  join 
the  mighty  Mississippi  on  its  way  to  the  sea. 


48  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


FREMONT   PASS. 

J.  D.  DILLENBACK. 

He  who  has  climbed  in  this  rare  atmosphere, 
By  giddy  roads,  up  to  this  lofty  height 
And  paused  upon  the  pass,  awed  by  the  sight, 
Looks  forth  in  wonder,  shadowed  still  by  fear. 

The  snow-crowned  monarchs  of  an  upper  world, 
Rugged  and  steep  and  bare,  the  mountains  rise; 
Their  very  feet  are  planted  in  the  skies ; 
Adown  their  sides  are  avalanches  hurled. 

Man  seldom,  for  adventure  or  for  gain, 
To  greater  heights  ascends.     Here  is  the  crest 
Of  the  great  Rocky  Mountains;  East  and  West 
Drop  toward  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  main. 

Time  was,  when  few  and  daring  were  the  men 
Who  might  behold  this  pass,  that  Fremont  gained 
Through  toil  and  danger,  and,  its  heights  attained, 
Perils  beset  the  long  leagues  down  again. 

Now  all  may  come  who  seek,  afar  from  crowds, 
The  grand  in  nature,  for  we  now  engage 
The  potent  genii  of  this  iron  age, 
Fire,  steam  and  steel,  and  rise  above  the  clouds ! 


5O  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


MARSHALL  PASS. 

KA  ARSHALL  PASS  is  entered  almost  imperceptibly 

I  *  \  from  Poncha  Pass  and  the  whole  wonderful  ascent 
L  \  might  very  readily  be  imagined  as  one  and  the 
same.  The  summit  is  almost  eleven  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea  and  the  tortuous  method  by  which  the  daring 
engineers  of  the  Denver  &  Rio  Grande  Railroad  have 
achieved  this  summit  can  best  be  understood  by  a  glance 
at  the  cut  illustrating  the  alignment  of  the  track  shown 
on  another  page.  As  the  train  progresses  up  the  steep, 
the  view  becomes  less  obstructed  by  mountain  sides  and 
the  eye  roams  over  miles  of  cone-shaped  summits.  The 
timberless  tops  of  towering  ranges  show  him  that  he  is 
among  the  heights  and  in  a  region  familiar  with  the 
clouds.  Then  he  beholds,  stretching  away  to  the  left,  the 
most  perfect  of  all,  the  Sierras.  The  sunlight  falls  with 
a  white,  transfiguring  radiance  upon  the  snow-crowned 
spires  of  the  Sangre  de  Christo  range.  Their  sharp  and 
dazzling  pyramids,  which  near  at  hand  are  clearly  defined, 
extend  to  the  southward  until  cloud  and  sky  and  snowy 
peak  commingle  and  form  a  vague  and  bewildering  vision. 
To  the  right  towers  the  fire-scarred  front  of  old  Ouray, 
grand,  solitary  and  forbidding.  Ouray  holds  the  pass, 
standing  sentinel  at  the  rocky  gateway  to  the  fertile  Gun- 
nison.  Slowly  the  steeps  are  conquered,  until  at  last  the 
train  halts  upon  the  summit  of  the  continental  divide 
which  separates  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific. 
The  traveler  looks  down  upon  four  lines  of  road,  terrace 
beyond  terrace,  the  last  so  far  below  as  to  be  quite  indis- 
tinct to  view.  Wonder  at  the  triumphs  of  engineering 
skill  is  strangely  mingled  with  the  feelings  of  awe  and 
admiration  at  the  stupendous  grandeur  of  the  scene. 


52  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


MARSHALL  PASS. 

ALICE   S.  MITCHELL. 

Above  the  world's  wild  roar  and  clash 
Unnumbered  waves  of  emerald  dash, 
One  giant  rears  a  lofty  dome, 
His  wrinkled  forehead  flecked  with  foam. 
Here  smoky  pennons  wave  in  air, 
Two  armies  grand,  the  brave,  the  fair 
Wind  swiftly  up  the  mountain  side. 
They  reach  the  cleft,  the  great  "divide; 
With  joyful  shout,  upon  its  crest, 
The  East  gives  greeting  to  the  West. 
Here  generations  yet  unborn 
Shall  watch  the  sunset  kiss  the  morn, 
And  glad  winds  "hallelujahs"  sing 
As  Winter  clasps  the  hand  of  Spring. 

Upon  the  summit  of  this  crest 
Columbia's  eagle  built  his  nest. 
The  plumage  of  his  mighty  wings 
From  sea  to  sea  their  shadow  flings. 
Sheltered  beneath  this  faithful  breast 
A  continent  doth  safely  rest. 
Guarded  by  piercing  eyes  so  true 
His  beek  holds  firm  the  banner  blue. 

Sometimes  to  mortal  man  'tis  given 
To  breathe  the  perfumed  air  of  heaven, 
The  folded  wings  of  souls  unfurled 
Like  soaring  birds  above  the  world, 
Mounting  beyond  our  love  and  hate 
We,  reverent,  whisper  "  God  is  great." 


CHIPPETA  FALLS  IN  THE   BLACK  CANON. 


54  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


THE  BLACK   CANON. 

IX  all  the  world  there  is  no  place  so  beautiful,  imposing, 
sublime  and  awful  that  may  be  so  easily  and  comfort- 
ably visited  as  the  Black  canon,  for  the  iron  horse  of 
the  Denver  &  Rio  Grande  Railroad  has  a  pathway  through 
the  canon  and  he  draws  after  him  coaches  as  handsome 
and  pleasant  as  those  which  he  draws  on  the  level  plain. 
Along  many  miles  of  this  grand  gorge  the  railway  lies 
upon  a  shelf  that  has  been  blasted  in  the  solid  walls  of 
God's  masonry;  walls  that  3tand  sheer  two  thousand  feet 
in  height  and  so  close  together  that  for  most  of  the  dis- 
tance through  the  canon  only  a  streak  of  sky,  sometimes 
in  broad  daylight,  spangled  with  stars,  is  seen  above. 

"I'll  look  no  more; 

Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong." 

Unlike  many  of  the  Colorado  canons,  the  scenery  in  this 
one  is  kaleidoscopic,  ever  changing.  Here  the  train  glides 
along  between  the  close,  regular  and  exalted  walls,  then 
suddenly  it  passes  the  mouth  of  another  mighty  canon 
which  looks  as  if  it  were  a  great  gateway  to  an  unroofed 
arcade  leading  from  the  pathway  of  some  monstrous 
giant.  Now,  at  a  sharp  turn,  Chippeta  falls,  a  stream  of 
liquid  crystal,  pitches  from  the  top  of  the  dizzy  cliffs  to 
the  bosom  of  the  sparkling  rive'r  which  dashes  beside  the 
road.  Then  a  spacious  amphitheater  is  passed,  in  the 
center  of  which  stands  Currecanti  Needle  solitary  and 
alone,  a  towering  monument  of  solid  stone,  which  reaches 
to  where  it  flaunts  the  clouds,  like  some  great  cathedral 
spire.  Truly  there  is  no  gorge  in  all  the  Rocky  range 
that  presents  such  variety  and  grandeur  as  the  Black 
canon  of  the  Gunriison. 


CUKRECANTI   NEtDLE— BLACK.  CANON. 


RHYMES    OF   THE    ROCKIES. 


THE  BLACK  CANON. 


FANNIE   ISABEL   SHERRICK. 

The  midday  sun  in  this  deep  gorge 

Resigns  his  old-time  splendor, 
His  palace  walls  of  dreamy  gold 
The  rose-hues  warm  and  tender. 

The  cleft  is  dark  below 
Where  foaming  flows  the  somber  river, 
The  wild  winds  sigh  and  blossoms  shiver, 
And  violet  mists  ascending 

Obscure  the  Orient  glow. 

O!  rushing  river  emerald -hued, 

How  mad  thou  art  and  fearless, 
No  frowning  gates,  though  granite -barred, 
Can  curb  thy  waters  peerless ! 

The  silent  gods  of  stone 
Revoke  their  ancient  laws  of  might 
When  through  the  gorge  with  wing-swift  flight 
Thy  wind-tossed  waves  are  speeding, 
Each  moment  wilder  grown. 

The  faint  stars  shine  in  broad  midday 
Through  twilight  mists,  gold -rifted, 
WJiere  opal  streams  make  dizzy  leaps 
O'er  jasper  walls  blue-rifted. 

Below  no  naiads  dream 

'Ntath  dim  arcades,  through  sunless  deeps 
The  nomad  river  lonely  leaps, 
Where  castled  crags  rise  skyward 

Like  watch-towers  o'er  the  stream. 

On  massive  cliff- walls  Nature's  hand 
Has  turned  time's  sun-worn  pages, 
In  faces  carved  and  figures  hewn 
We  trace  the  work  of  ages. 

The  gold -tipped  spires  sublime, 
That  pierce  the  sky- like  shafts  of  light, 
But  mark  the  measureless  heavenward  height 
Of  Nature's  own  cathedral, 

Whose  stern  high  priest  is  Time. 

In  this  grand  temple,  eons  old 
Her  .organ  notes  are  pealing, 
In  gold -flecked  arch  and  wave -worn  aisles 
The  flower-nuns  are  kneeling; 

Her  altars  echo  prayer, 
And  when  at  dusk  the  cold  moon  shines, 
O !  awful  are  the  far  white  shrines 
From  earth  to  God  upreaching 

Through  spirit-flooded  air. 


CASTLt  GATE 


58  RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES. 


CASTLE  GATE. 

UARDING  the  entrance  to  Price  River  canon, 
through  which  the  railroad  runs  into  the  very  heart 
of  the  range,  stands  Castle  Gate,  similar  in  many 
respects  to  the  gateway  of  the  Garden  of  the  Gods.  The 
two  huge  pillars  or  ledges  of  rock  composing  it  are  off- 
shoots of  the  cliffs  behind.  They  are  of  different  heights, 
one  measuring  five  hundred  and  the  other  four  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  from  top  to  base.  They  are  richly  dyed 
with  red  and  the  firs  and  pines  growing  about  them,  but 
reaching  only  to  their  lower  strata,  render  this  coloring 
more  noticeable  and  beautiful.  Between  the  two  sharp 
promontories,  which  are  separated  only  by  a  narrow  space, 
the  river  and  the  railroad  both  run,  one  pressing  closely 
against  the  other.  The  stream  leaps  over  a  rocky  bed 
and  its  banks  are  lined  with  tangled  brush.  The  turreted 
rocks,  the  rushing  stream  and  the  darkling  canon  bring 
forcibly  to  mind  that  wonderful  dream  of  Coleridge: 

"  In  Xanadn  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree; 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 

With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round; 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 

Where  blossom'd  many  an  incense -bearing  tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Infolding  sunnv  spots  of  greenery." 

Once  past  the  gate,  and  looking  back,  the  bold  head- 
lands forming  it  have  a  new  and  more  attractive  beauty. 
They  are  higher  and  more  massive,  it  seems,  than  when 
we  were  in  their  shadow.  Huge  rocks  project  far  out 
from  their  perpendicular  faces.  No  other  isolated  pin- 
nacles in  this  region  approach  them  in  size  or  majesty. 
They  are  landmarks  up  and  down  the  cafion,  their  lofty 
tops  catching  the  eye  before  their  bases  are  discovered. 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  59 


AT   CASTLE  GATE. 


W.   E.    PABOR. 

'Stand,  stranger,  stand.    The  castle  gate 
Through  which  you  pass  to  fairy  land 
Is  mine  to  guard.     What  happy  fate 
Bids  you  within  its  border  ?    Stand !  " 

Warder  of  this  stately  castle, 

Stay  the  menace  of  your  hand , 
I  am  but  a  simple  singer 

Singing  songs  throughout  the  land. 
Through  the  time-stained  rugged  portals 

I  can  catch  a  glimpse  afar, 
Where  the  light  shines  on  the  woodland 

Like  the  light  of  the  morning  star. 

Let  me  pass,  Oh  stern-faced  warder, 

Through  the  wondrous  castle  gate; 
Let  me  walk  within  the  garden 

Led  by  fancy  and  by  fate. 
For  the  sunlight  and  the  moonlight 

And  the  starlight,  as  they  fall, 
Seem  replete  with  happy  fancies 

Making  pictures  on  the  wall. 

Gateway  to  a  happy  valley, 

Open  wide  and  let  my  feet 
Wander  in  the  flowery  meadows 

Where  the  shining  waters  meet. 
Frowning  cliffs  lift  up  to  front  me, 

Sunset  hues  the  rocks  that  rise, 
But  my  eyes  have  caught  a  vision 

Of  green  fields  and  violet  skies. 

Lying  over  Soldier  Summit 

In  the  valleys  of  the  West, 
With  the  bloom  and  blush  of  Eden 

Lying  softly  on  their  breast, 
Vales  of  splendor,  vales  of  beauty, 

Meet  to  melt  a  heart  of  stone; 
Vale  of  Tempe  pales  in  glory 

When  beside  thy  brightness  shown. 

Other  lips  have  uttered  fancies, 

Other  eyes  on  thee  have  shone, 
Other  feet  have  walked  these  meadows, 

Passing  through  the  gate  of  stone. 
But  my  lips  can  not  keep  silence, 

Or  my  eyes  their  rapture  bate, 
As  they  eatch  a  glimpse  of  Eden 

Through  the  cliff-crowned  Castle  Gate. 

'  Pass,  stranger,  pass,  the  olden  time 
Was  full  of  song  of  mirth  and  cheer; 

Sing  any  song  that  suits  your  rhyme, 
And  let  it  echo  round  the  year." 


RHYMES    OF    THE    ROCKIES.  6l 


GREAT  SALT  LAKE. 

S\LT  LAKE  CITY  is  in  a  veritable  garden.  Low 
and  picturesque  houses  harmonize  in  their  cool, 
quiet  tones  with  the  extensive  orchards  of  fruit 
and  gardens  of  flowers  which  surround  them  and  the 
business  blocks  in  the  center  of  the  city  are  imposing  and 
strong.  Back  upon  a  "bench,"  and  several  hundred  feet 
above  the  city,  is  Fort  Douglas,  the  flag  of  the  Republic 
standing  out  in  bright  relief  against  the  Wasatch.  Strong 
and  rapid  mountain  streams  come  rushing  through  the 
canons  and  are  led  into  the  city,  where  the  clear,  cold, 
limpid  waters  sing  a  pleasant  song  as  they  sport  and  play 
along  the  sides  of  the  streets  where  they  are  conducted 
through  the  entire  city.  The  Oquirrh  mountains  shut  in 
the  valley  to  the  west.  The  great  object  of  interest  to  the 
tourist  and  stranger  is  Temple  Square;  here  are  situated 
the  great  ecclesiastical  buildings  of  the  Mormon  Church. 
Prominent  among  them  is  the  Temple,  Tabernacle  and 
Assembly  Hall. 

The  Great  Salt  Lake  is  a  mysterious  inland  sea,  which, 
more  than  any  other  body  of  water  on  the  globe,  has 
created  and  left  unsatisfied  the  curiosity  of  mankind.  Its 
dead,  dreamy,  silent,  tideless  waters  are  still  an  enigma, 
both  to  the  learned  and  unlearned.  Here  one  can  recall 
with  aptness  Byron's  apostrophe  to  Leman: 

"  Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face, 

The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 

Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hue." 

The  lake's  surface  is  higher  than  the  Alleghanies  and 
mountainous  islands  rise  from  its  bosom,  casting  their 
dark  shadows  on  the  blue  expanse  which  lies  slumbering 
at  their  feet. 


RHYMES    OF   THE    ROCKIES.  63 

SUNSET  ON   GREAT  SALT  LAKE. 

W.    E.    PABOR. 

Over  the  Oquirrh  ranges 

Pearly  clouds  of  softness  rest, 
Blending1  with  the  rippling  changes 

On  great  Salt  Lake's  wave-swept  breast. 
In  the  sunset  I  am  roaming, 

Looking  out  across  the  deep 
Tideless  waves,  that  in  the  gloaming 

Moan  as  if  in  dreamy  sleep. 

Locked  in  the  embrace  of  mountains, 

Whose  green  frontlets  watch  the  isles, 
Guarding  the  enchanted  fountains 

Where  a  siren  sits  and  smiles. 
Lake  of  mystery  and  wonder, 

Lake  of  silence  so  sublime, 
In  thy  depths  we  look  and  ponder 

On  the  strangest  gift  of  time. 

Lower  down  the  crimson  chamber 

Of  the  west  the  sunset  falls; 
Creamy  cumuli  of  amber 

Penciled  on  its  crystal  walls; 
Now  the  tints  change  into  umber, 

Twilight  shadows  creep  along 
Slowly,  like  the  sense  of  slumber, 

Through  the  solace  of  a  song. 

As  the  sunset's  charm  thrills  through  me, 

Musing  on  the  sand-swept  marge, 
Fancy  brings  a  boatman  to  me 

With  his  pearl-enameled  barge; 
And  he  bids  me  leave  the  highlands, 

With  their  shadow  and  their  stain, 
And  sail  with  him  to  the  islands 

Lying  in  the  azure  main. 

Farewell  now  to  all  things  human, 

In  the  boatman's  barge  I  stand, 
Trust  of  man  or  love  of  woman 

I  leave  on  the  shore  of  sand. 
Through  empurpled  mists  that  hover 

Round  the  islands  of  the  blest, 
In  the  sunset  I  go  over 

To  the  lotus  land  of  rest. 


64  RHYMES    OF   THE    ROCKIES, 


L'ENVOY. 

Through  wond'rous  scenes  our  pleasant  path  has  wound 

From  "  Palmer  Lake  "  to  that  enchanted  ground 

The  "  Garden  of  the  Gods."     We've  paused  to  view 

The  many  marvels  of  fair  "  Manitou." 

Have  gazed  with  reverence  upon  "  Cheyenne," 

Made  doubly  sacred  by  the  poet's  pen 

And  poet's  grave;  have  seen  the  mighty  earth 

Grow  small  beneath  us,  and  new  stars  take  birth 

As  "  Veta  Pass  "  was  conquered,  and  with  brown 

Rocks  girded,  gazed  on  "  Blanca's  "  triple  crown ; 

Have  passed  o'er  "Toltec,"  marvelous,  sublime! 

Triumphant  work  of  science,  art  and  time; 

Have  seen  the  "  Castles"  of  that  perished  race 

Who  dwelt  on  cliffs,  and  have  beheld  the  place, 

Wondrous  and  wild,  where  flows  the  "  Animas  " 

Through  cloven  cliffs  which  let  its  waters  pass. 

Then  northward  turned  we've  seen  upreared  on  high 

The  "  Holy  Cross  "  emblazoned  on  the  sky, 

From  "  Fremont  Pass  "  beheld  beneath  our  feet 

The  soaring  eagle  ply  his  pinions  fleet. 

Deep  in  the  "  Royal  Gorge  "  have  breathless  whirled 

As  through  some  cavern  of  the  under- world. 

On  "  Marshall  Pass  "  the  clouds  have  by  us  sped 

Like  white- sailed  ships  with  all  their  canvas  spread, 

Then  circling  downward  to  the  verdant  plain, 

Through  which  the  Gunnison  flows  to  the  main, 

We  reach  the  cafion  "  Black  "  and  deep  and  long 

Wherein  the  river  sings  its  battle  song; 

We  pass  beyond  to  where  the  warders  wait 

Beside  the  portals  of  the  "  Castle  Gate." 

Through  this  we  pass  to  that  enchanted  sea 

The  "  Great  Salt  Lake,"  enwrapped  in  mystery, 

And  as  it  slumbers  'neath  the  setting  sun, 

We  sigh  to  think  our  wondrous  journey's  done. 


